


Never Dead

by Westgate (Harkpad)



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Clint Needs a Hug, First Dates, Get Together, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Medical Inaccuracies, Phil needs one too, Poisoning, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-30
Updated: 2015-06-30
Packaged: 2018-04-06 22:19:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4238667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harkpad/pseuds/Westgate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil drags Clint to a safe house after he's been captured and poisoned, and now Phil is witness to truths about Clint's past that were never intended for him to hear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Dead

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from a quote by William Faulkner: "The past is never dead. It's not even past."
> 
> Thanks so much to AlyKat for a quick and helpful beta read!

"They're calling this a safe house?" Clint slurs, and he's clearly trying very hard not to trip on his way to the lumpy brown couch shoved crookedly against the back wall. He fails, but manages to fall onto the couch instead of face planting on the floor the way Phil thought he was going to do.

Phil swallows his worry and shuts and locks the door behind them before he shucks off his wet jacket onto a chair. He makes a sweep of the small house, with its one shoe-box sized bedroom, warped sand-colored wood floor, and green, torn linoleum floored kitchen. He has to brush down a cobweb in a bedroom and stomp with both shoes in order to kill the frighteningly large spider who was sleeping there. He stomps one more in the bathroom before checking for the first aid kit.

He blows out a breath of relief when he finds it under the sink, and opens it to pull out the tox screening kit he needs. “You’ve got to be kidding me," he mutters after going through it. He dumps the whole thing out on the floor in desperation, but still doesn't find it.

He's going to fire someone when they get back to SHIELD.

"Phil!"

Anger bubbles in Phil’s chest, but he tries to ignore it. It’s not going to help here. He grabs a washcloth and wets it down before he heads back for Clint, who's sprawled out on the couch with his head thrown back against the arm. His hair is dark with sweat and his eyes are clenched shut.

Phil takes a moment to suck in a deep breath. This is Clint. This is one of his best friends, and he's never been in a situation like this with someone this close. Fellow soldiers to get out safely, sure, but an adrenaline rush and pure will have been enough before. Now, he's got to be smart, especially with the state of the so-called safe house.

More importantly, he's got to set aside burning worry and the hole in his world that is hovering in the shadows, waiting to claim him if Clint dies here. He's got to set aside the absolutely ridiculous 'what-if-we-were-the-same-level-and-I-weren't-his-superior' game he's been playing at night, in bed, alone for two years. Clint is not only his friend, but he’s steadily become Phil’s favorite person in the universe.

Setting that fact aside is not so easy.

He takes a deep breath, sets his shoulders and looks at Clint again, moves to his side and presses a reassuring hand to Clint's shoulder. He's been poisoned by the Hydra team who held him for the precise two hours it took for Phil to locate and subdue said team and get Clint out. Phil was a focused laser at the small base, and the thought of Clint getting taken out by the scum of the world spurred him through the base, taking everyone down to get to him.

Now he's got him safe and they don't have a fucking tox kit, and Phil's worry is twisting chaotically in his chest.

"Phil, make it stop, please," Clint whispers, and his voice is like a stone dragging across concrete, and Phil can hear him trying to keep it clear and hard and strong through the pain. He’s seen Clint grit his teeth through a bullet wound, stay silent and glaring as assholes beat him for information, and now he's shaking loose on the couch of a crappy apartment in Munich.

"Clint," Phil says, and keeps his voice even and calm. "I don't have much to work with here, and I've got to make some guesses."

"Tox-kit," Clint grinds out, and he opens his eyes and looks at Phil, sharp and worried.

Phil reaches out and brushes Clint's too-shaggy hair off his forehead. "I don't have one. Someone's losing their job over this, but I don't have one. We've got an evac coming in the next two hours, but we have nothing to work with until then."

The flash of fear on Clint's face is like a sharp knife across Phil's skin, but Clint shuts it off quickly and it turns into a groan, loud and angry. "Fucking SHIELD prep teams. Fuck!"

Phil leans over and wipes Clint's face with the washcloth. "We'll get you through. Okay? Now listen to me," he says, and he pours his command voice on thick. Clint snaps his eyes to Phil and Phil knows it's instinct for Clint now, to focus on Phil when he hears that voice. Nevertheless, having that immediate focus always sends a thrill through his body. "You have to tell me everything. The second something changes in your body, you tell me, you understand?"

Clint breathes heavily through his nose and sweat beads drip slowly down the side of his washed-out face. He nods.

There's a good reason to lay this on thick, so Phil does. "I mean everything, Clint. You get a tingle in your little finger and you tell me. No toughing through it right now. Be a fucking novelist, okay? Narrate this scene like you're Charles Dickens, got it?"

Clint pants and nods and tries to crack a smile. "I thought you liked Hemingway," he whispers.

Phil shakes his head and wipes more sweat away. "You narrate like Hemingway and you'll die on this couch.”

Clint nods and blows a breath out through puffed cheeks. "It's like there are needles, like fucking long syringes, all over my skin, Phil."

The only thing he knows to do is to keep Clint as comfortable as he can, and talking. "More, Clint. Where on your skin? Arms only?" he says, and leans forward, makes sure he stays in Clint's sight. Of course, he's always in Clint's sight, it seems. He's never really been the center of someone's attention like he has of Clint's over the last few years.

He's had friends who worry about him, he's had friends who listen when he needs it, but Clint has always felt tuned to him as if they were parts of the same instrument. Like he could tell the second something was off with Phil, like he could see everything. Phil couldn't keep injuries hidden from Clint, he couldn't keep frustrations hidden, and Clint always chipped away at any walls Phil tried to put up with smiles and jokes and food and good natured pranks to disarm Phil in the best ways.

"My feet are okay," Clint says with a glare before he groans and arches like he's going to come right off the couch. Phil lays his forearm across Clint's chest to press him back down, to keep him in one spot, to touch and make sure he knows Phil's there. He ignores the thought that whispers in his head about always wanting to touch and be there for Clint.

“You’re going to be okay," he says, but now Clint's writhing, hard, his whole body shaking like he’s being shocked. "Talk to me, Clint," Phil commands.

Clint can't talk. He screams.

Phil just presses him into the cushions and says anything that comes to mind, and if it sounds too intimate, too worried, too downright scared, well. Clint's not really hearing him anyway.

His screams fade after a minute, and he's left limp on the couch, panting like a dog.

"Tell me what's happening," Phil pleads.

"Barney, make him stop," Clint says between breaths, and Phil sucks in a sharp breath of his own. Barney is a name Clint never brings up. Phil only knows who he is from Clint’s file. Even though Clint’s asked about Phil’s family from time to time, he shuts off conversations about his own family the second it’s mentioned.

"Make him stop, please. It hurts, but he won't stop." Clint tries to throw a hand over his face but Phil's in the way. "Stop fucking with me!" Clint yells past Phil, and his eyes are wild and focused on a spot behind him. They're focused hard, and his body is as tense as his bowstring at full draw. "Stop fucking with me!"

His body suddenly relaxes like someone cut the strings holding him up, and he looks at the ceiling now, shakes his head back and forth loosely, like his muscles aren't working right. Whatever the drug is, it's stealing his grace and Phil's anger about _that_ is hot and dark.

"Clint," Phil says, as gently as he can. "Clint look at me." Clint's head lolls and he tries to meet Phil's gaze. His eyes keep sliding to the side, though. "Clint, look. You're safe."

A bitter laugh escapes Clint's lips. "Not safe. Never safe. He's such an asshole," he breathes, and his eyes slip shut.

Phil can't tell if he's talking about Barney or someone else, and he wonders at this unwarranted glimpse at Clint's past. He knows that his brother was in his life and then he wasn't. He only knows the things from Clint's file, though: the places Clint had lived – Waverly, Cedar Rapids, the nomad life of the circus, and the people who employed him. Even Phil, who thought of himself as a good listener, had never been given anything about where he came from or what kind of people were in his life as he grew up.

Only once, in the darkness of an AIM holding cell, as Phil had pulled him, beaten and bruised, to his feet to get him out, Clint had whispered, "I really didn't think good men existed until I found SHIELD."

Now Phil moves to the kitchen and thankfully finds bottles of water in the refrigerator. He downs one quickly, and then grabs another and heads back to the couch. Clint's eyes are closed, but the focused, raspy breaths tell Phil he's still conscious. Sweat is still dripping down his cheek, and his black t-shirt is clinging to his chest. Phil brushes a hand across Clint's cheek.

"Clint, you need some water. Hey," he says, but Clint doesn't respond, so Phil reaches down and puts a hand behind his neck, presses him upward a bit. Clint's eyes flutter open, but they're lazy and unfocused, and he doesn't really see Phil when he looks at him. It makes Phil's stomach turn with nausea, and he's suddenly hot and his own clothes feel too tight. He pulls a little at his collar, and Clint starts talking.

"Leave me alone," he mumbles, but he's still not really looking at Phil. "I'm too hurt to perform tonight. Can't. Punish me tomorrow."

Phil swallows his nausea at the words and holds up the water bottle. "Drink this," he orders, figuring that trying to cut through whatever haze Clint's in will be useless. "You need water." He presses the bottle to Clint's lips and holds it carefully as Clint gulps. He pulls it away about a third of the way through and Clint whines like a child.

"More, please."

"Wait, Clint," Phil says. "We need to go slow." He's not sure how much he should give him, but Clint's eyes are sinking and his skin is sallow already, and the sweat seems to be running like a faucet, so he's worried about dehydration.

"I'll be good," Clint whispers, and this time he does find Phil's eyes. Phil shudders at the desperation he sees there, the submission. He's never seen Clint submit to anyone, and it feels like the universe is slipping off-kilter at the sight. "I'll listen and you can hit me and show me who's boss and I won't, I won't be a smart ass anymore if you'll give me more water. Please."

Phil's heart drops and he leans forward with the bottle as Clint drinks greedily.

When it's gone, he leans back, panting again. Phil feels a desperation growing, a thread of fear that’s taunting, saying that if he can't get Clint to recognize him, he'll lose him forever. "Clint," he says, and he brushes Clint's hair, runs his hand down Clint’s cheek like he's his, "Clint please look at me. It's me, Phil," he says, and he tries to sound as normal as possible.

Clint tries to focus, looks, and almost sees, but then he's lost again. "Why won't you help me," he whispers. "It hurts! Leave me lying here in the fucking dust, my own brother!" His voice gets louder, like he's gaining momentum. “You told me when they died that we'd stick together. We'd look out for each other and I tried, I tried to look out for you! I gave you - " and he stops and sucks in a pained breath and curls into himself on the couch, "Ohhh, fuck. Why'd you let him stab me? You just stood there and now I'm gonna die here, Barney. I'm gonna die here and I don't want to die, god dammit."

Phil feels like a _voyeur_. He feels dirty and sneaky and like he's watching a scene unfold that was never meant for him, one that was locked away in Clint's memory for a reason. He's taking something that Clint didn't want to give him, despite their friendship, and it makes him feel sick.

It's not like Clint's never had an opening, after all. They've talked about life and their ideas and what they think of people and political issues and social issues. Hell, he and Clint came out to each other a few months ago, completely accidentally in the middle of a long conversation about sex education in the US as they sat in a safe house planning an op on a trafficking ring.

Clint said he'd been with men and women and he figured he was bisexual, even though no one really ever talked about it with him. Phil told him about his own experience, mostly with men but with an occasional woman, too, and they laughed about how it was a good thing neither one of them ended up in a conventional organization after all. There was no awkwardness or tension.

Clint told him all that, but he refused to speak about his brother, the circus, or the years after he left them in any sort of detail. There was a locked door to Clint's past that he'd never offered to open, and now Phil is watching it like a twisted video of Clint’s childhood and it makes his chest vibrate with guilt.

"Barney, please!" Clint shouts. "I gave you money! I gave you money from my act and he beat the shit out of me and not you! Isn't that enough because now you're fucking killing me and mom and dad are gone and I'm your fucking brother!" Now he goes to his elbows and tries to get up. Phil holds his shoulders, but Clint is strong and shoves him with a grimace and a yell.

Phil loses his balance and Clint's off the couch, stumbling to the floor like a drunkard, and trying to stand. He falls to his knees and Phil is there, pulls him into his lap and holds tight. "Clint, I'm here. Calm down, please." He says it over and over like a litany. He's afraid that moving around a lot will hurt Clint, and he's losing way too much control over the situation as it is. "Clint stop."

As if Clint wants to believe he's safe, he burrows into Phil's arms like a child. "Please, Barney," he whispers, and then wraps his arms around Phil's waist. "Please don't leave."

Phil's heart is breaking, so he decides to play along. Maybe it will keep Clint calm. Anything to keep him calm and keep the fear from creeping into Phil's chest. "I'm not leaving, Clint."

Clint twists in his lap and ends up with his head on Phil's legs and his own legs sprawled on the floor in front of them. He grasps his stomach. "It hurts like it's burning, Barney," he mumbles, and Phil can feel the heat radiating from him. He brushes a hand through Clint's hair and worries at the tremble he can feel through Clint's whole body. Evac better get here soon, he thinks, and rests his hand on Clint's cheek.

"Why'd you let him cut me, Barney?" Clint says, and he looks at Phil with eyes full of the sadness of a lost child, a boy with a heart too big for the world he was thrown into, and sadness deep enough to become walls as the years went by.

Phil brushes his cheek, relishes the touch of Clint's skin against his, that even in the flushed heat of the fever, he's still breathing, still here with him. "I didn't mean to," he answers as the departed brother, the one who clearly abandoned Clint and left him in anguish. The second the words leave his mouth he feels grimy and mean. He can't pretend to be a brother like that, who clearly hurt Clint more by leaving him than a stab wound ever did.

"Where will you go?" Phil asks instead, redirecting, trying to force Clint's mind into a future, away from the obviously painful events with his brother.

"Can't go to the military," Clint mutters, his voice dropping. "You said I’m too stupid. They won't take me. Dunno where I'll go." He sucks in a sharp breath and grabs for Phil's arms. "Make it stop hurting," he cries. "I'm gonna die, Barney. You let him kill me, you fucking asshole bastard!" His voice sounds like it’s full of gravel and fear and it tears at Phil like he really did do something wrong, like he deserves some of the blame Clint is pouring out.

Phil pulls Clint close, grips his shoulders tight. Clint writhes again, groaning and pressing his head against Phil's chest. "Shhh," Phil whispers, and a wave of fear washes through him as Clint twists some more, thrashes violently in his lap. Phil can't hold him, just tries to stay under him so he doesn't hit his head.

There's a banging on the door, a code yelled by a SHEILD agent on the other side, and Phil calls out the right response and then, "Get in here, now!"

They do, with a crash, and a medic rushes to Phil and kneels down in front of him. Phil rattles off a report. "Poison, no tox kit in the house. Pain and hallucinations - he hasn't been lucid for the last hour at least, and it just got worse," Phil reports, and the medic calls for a stretcher and then grapples with Clint's swinging arm for a moment to take some blood.

Phil tries to hold Clint down, but he’s wild, every muscle trying to get him away, and a second medic presses a mouth guard into his mouth. Clint yells and his eyes are flooded with panic, but they have to just hold him between the two of them while the tox scan runs.

As angry as Phil is with SHIELD right now, he offers up a silent thanks to R&D for their high speed tox kit. It doesn't give an antidote any quicker, but it's good at showing which sedation method is safe, so the first medic is back in two minutes with a syringe that she presses into Clint's arm, and he's finally still, and the place is weirdly silent.

It feels to Phil like a video is getting fast-forwarded to the right spot.

"Let's get him on the stretcher. We need to get him out of here," the medic says, and Phil helps shuffle Clint onto the board and steps back with his arms crossed as they carry Clint out of the building. Phil rides his adrenaline and locks down the safe-house, and he's in the jet half an hour later as the medics work over Clint. The medics deem Clint stable enough to make the flight back to SHIELD headquarters and Phil's energy drains away as soon as they say it.

He leans back against the wall of the plane and sighs, rubbing his face.

"Sir? Do you have any injuries we should look at?" One of the medics asks, standing over him.

"No. I'm fine, thanks. Report on Agent Barton?"

"We've got him on a saline drip and we'll keep him sedated and under close monitoring. We've got his pulse stabilized, probably because he's not in pain anymore, but that's about all we can say. I've sent the sample data back to SHIELD and hopefully they'll have a plan when we arrive. Right now it's just about keeping him stable until we get those results" she says, and shrugs. She sighs a tired sigh. "This would be a hell of a lot easier if we'd had some results from a base kit by now."

"Someone is going to be very unhappy that we needed that kit," Phil says, closing his eyes and stifling the anger he now has a moment to feel. That anger folds into panic when the flight is five minutes out from headquarters and Clint crashes. Phil watches with his arms crossed tightly across his chest, mouth in a thin line of worry and helplessness. By the time they usher Phil to the medical waiting area, Clint's been stabilized again, but that does little to ease Phil's concern.

Sitwell brings him coffee a few minutes later, and pushes him into a chair.

Phil looks over at him, probably a little too slowly to be considered in good form. "I need the name of the prep team leader for Munich," he says.

"You need sleep, Phil," Sitwell replies. "But I'll get the name. What happened?"

Phil runs a hand down his face and pulls his already undone tie all the way off. "Safe house without a tox kit. Might cost us Barton's life." It already cost Clint part of his past, and Phil swallows down his anger at that. He would protect even Clint's memories if he could.

"Fuck," Jasper replies, slumping into a seat next to him. "Whoever that idiot is, they're so fired."

An hour later and they let Phil in to see Clint. He's the color of the sheets he's lying on, and Phil hates how he looks like he might crumple to dust any moment. The doctors assure him that Clint will live, that they had the antidote on hand once they figured out what it was, but that it's going to wreak some havoc on Clint's system on the way.

"Mental processes?" Phil asks immediately. "He was completely out of it under the drug."

The doctor nods and says they’ll have to assess it when he wakes.

Phil settles in to wait. He dozes off and on in the chair, and Jasper shuffles him off to the bathroom and hands him a pair of jeans and a comfortable sweatshirt to change into. He stares at the clothes blankly until Jasper adds, "Fury says you're on leave for a couple days."

Phil changes clothes, washes his face, and settles back into the chair. He watches Clint sleep, and after a while he realizes he's wondering who that kid was, the one screaming for his brother, at his brother, about some maniac who clearly hurt him.

He startles upright and takes a deep breath, realizes he could easily lift Clint's medical gown to check for a scar he's never known to look for. It could add a piece to the puzzle, he figures, so he leans forward, stands, and moves to Clint's side. He's still sound asleep, and Phil looks at the gown and sighs.

He sits back down.

None of this is his for the taking. No part of this story is his. Just because Clint shared part of it while out of his mind on drugs, doesn't mean Phil deserves any more of it. He wishes he could hear the clear version, that Clint would trust him enough with it, but it’s not his place to pry, and with Clint he wants to stay honest and clear. With Clint he wants to do things right.

He waits, sleeps, watches. While he watches, he sends his mission report to Fury and trusts him to take care of the safe house situation. Phil could handle that himself, but he's honestly afraid he'd hit someone over it, and that's just excessive. Phil has more important things to worry about.

He's thinking about those nights at home, wishing he weren't Clint's supervisor. He's thinking about the spikes of fear over the last twenty-four hours, the dread at losing what he's never had the chance to have, the hope that his friend would make it only so that Phil could have a chance to be there for him again.

Clint's sleeping gets restless, and his eyes finally flutter open in confusion. He looks around without moving his head, and Phil moves close, sits on the edge of the bed. He picks up Clint's hand, rubs gently.

"Clint, you're safe," he says firmly, and he watches carefully as recognition dawns in Clint's eyes. Phil feels like the sun finally came out after weeks of storms.

"Phil," Clint says, and his voice is paper-thin. He doesn't say anything else, just stares at his hand in Phil's.

"You're in SHIELD medical, Clint," he says, and leans over to push the call button for the doctor. He startles when Clint's other hand catches Phil's and grips it tightly.

"I got stabbed," he says, and fear is dancing at the edge of his eyes again.

"No, you didn't, Clint," Phil answers firmly, and pulls away enough to call the doctor. "You were poisoned and we didn't have a kit, so you had to ride it out. You hallucinated that you'd been stabbed."

"No, no, no, no, I got stabbed. I did," he says with the certainty of experience.

Phil figures he’s right. "You're safe now," he says, and he brushes Clint's hair from his forehead to try and wipe away the worry that’s creeping back into his chest.

"I feel sick," Clint murmurs, closing his eyes.

"Doctor's coming," Phil replies, and a moment later they do.

They ask Clint a few questions, and he gets some right (who's the President right now, what's the name of Clint's hometown, what's his job) and misses others (what year is it, where is he at the moment, does he remember what happened), and complains about nausea and dizziness. The doctor gives him an anti-nausea medicine in his IV and schedules another round of tests in a few hours.

Phil's been awake a long time, and Sitwell comes back and hands him a slip of paper. It's a note from Fury, ordering the doctor to order Phil to his quarters for medical rest. Phil sighs and knows it's the right thing to do, and goes before the doctor has to worry about any paperwork. He grips Jasper's arm and says, "You call me back down here if he so much as can't remember his middle name the next time he wakes up."

Phil wakes to a phone call two hours later.

"He keeps asking me where Barney went," Jasper says, and Phil is back in the med room in less than ten minutes.

Clint's doctor meets Phil outside the door with their hands up, holding Phil from the room. "I've sent a blood sample on rush to the labs and his vitals are holding steady. Just try to keep him calm, because I'd rather not have to add a sedative to the mix again."

Phil nods, and heads inside. Clint's staring at the ceiling with glassy eyes, and Jasper's watching him with crossed arms and narrow eyes.

"I've got this, now," Phil says, and Jasper turns and nods. He has dark circles of his own under his eyes.

"Who's Barney?" he asks as he gathers his briefcase to leave.

Phil just shakes his head, and says, "Thanks for sitting with him."

"I'm coming back in two hours to send you away again. That wasn't long enough."

Phil nods and turns to Clint. The sweating is back, and he looks blankly at Phil. "Hey there," Phil says, moving close.

Clint blinks a few times and nods faintly.

"You here with me, Clint?" Phil asks, and he rubs the back of Clint's hand.

Clint stares at Phil's hand and then closes his eyes. "I want to go home," he murmurs.

"Yeah, me too," Phil replies, and he really, really does. He wants to go home and have Clint healthy and laughing and watching Phil and seeing him again. "But we need to figure a few things out, first, okay?"

"Don't really have a home, though," Clint adds as if Phil didn't say anything. "Not after you left."

Phil hears that note of sadness in his voice again, the weariness of a kid too long on his own.

Clint sucks in a deep breath and coughs drily, so Phil leans over and offers him some water. He drinks half a glass in one breath. When Phil pulls the glass back, Clint locks eyes with him and suddenly he's clear, focused. "Phil?" he asks, and blinks.

"I'm right here," Phil says, and tries hard not to let hope spark too high.

"We back at base?"

"Yeah, we are. You're safe."

"You got me out of that cell," Clint says, like he's testing an idea.

"Yes, I found you pretty quick."

"Not that quick if I ended up here," Clint says, and he closes his eyes. "When can I go home?"

"Hopefully soon. Rest now."

Clint falls asleep and the tests come back showing improvement. The drug is washing out of his system. Ten minutes after the doctor reports the results, Phil is slumped in his chair, asleep. Jasper gets a junior agent to walk with Phil back to his quarters an hour later, and Phil sleeps soundly for a good eight hours before Jasper wakes him with another call.

"Can you please come handle this cranky asshole before I shoot his kneecap? I'm prepared to do what it takes to make him quit yelling."

Phil complies after a two minute shower and fresh clothes. "Eleven hours ago you didn't know where you were and you thought you were stabbed in the gut at the circus," Phil says when Clint growls at him about leaving. "The doctor needs you to stay a while longer for observation."

Clint stills at Phil's words, and his face goes blank. "I thought what?" he asks, cold and controlled.

"It's not important. You were hallucinating, Clint. You can't just go home yet. Try to get some more sleep." He settles himself in the chair near the bed. Clint watches him carefully, and then sighs loudly. He closes his eyes and at least rests until the doctor comes in to report that the drug appears to be completely gone from his system.

"I can recover in my quarters," Clint says, his voice dark. "If it's gone, right?"

The doctor frowns and looks at Phil. "I'd like to keep him a bit longer," he says, and ignores Clint completely as he adds, "But if he can answer all the questions, I'm willing to let him rest at home with observation if you make sure he's here in the morning for a round of follow-up tests."

Phil nods and watches as Clint's face darkens at the questions. He must realize he missed these same questions earlier. He gets them right this time, though, and Phil walks him to his quarters after the doctor signs him out. He's silent the whole way.

There's only silence in Clint’s rooms that night. Phil works, Clint sleeps, and eventually Phil crashes on the couch and gets a few hours of sleep before they head back to medical for the tests. Clint is quiet the whole way, moves slowly, like he doesn't trust his body yet, and sits frowning through the blood draws and tests.

"You want to meet me for some lunch in a few hours?" Phil asks on their way back to Clint's quarters after Clint’s been given the all-clear. He knows Clint needs rest, but he hasn't eaten, either.

Phil wants to keep helping him.

Clint shrugs as he unlocks his door. "I need more sleep. Three days of medical leave is going to go quick, probably, and I'm wiped right now." He ducks inside and looks back at Phil, and the lines on his face seem deeper than usual. "I'll call you when I feel human again. Thanks for sticking with me, though."

Phil can only nod as Clint shuts his door, and the click feels louder than it should be. Phil thinks back to those cries of desperation in the safe house, and it feels dream-like and unreal. He goes back to his quarters and takes a shower, and meets Jasper and Maria for a late lunch after napping a bit on his couch to the background noise of daytime talk shows. After lunch he goes to the shooting range and then the gym and tries to physically work the residual fear and worry away.

Clint doesn't call at all that day.

The next day passes slowly, even though Phil slept in until nine, until the weird late-morning dreams of Clint crying and calling him Barney wake him completely. He works out, showers, eats, tries not to worry about Clint's silence, and collapses into bed again that night by ten.

The next morning he's back in his office, in his comfortable suit, signing the last bit of paperwork from their mission. He opens a message from Fury and sucks in a sharp breath of surprise at its contents. He goes and takes a long walk on the grounds, letting the message roll around in his head for a while.

It’s a message about a promotion for Clint, sending him to the same level as Phil with all the same clearances. It’s a message that gives Phil an opportunity that he didn’t think he’d have for years, and it fills him with a mixture of emotions that just leaves him feeling muddled.

When Clint hasn't called or come by and it's three in the afternoon, he does a quick check at the range and sees that Clint's been shooting since one. Things clear up in Phil’s head a little, and he suddenly needs to be around Clint. It’s a familiar feeling, but today it’s fiery and sharp.

“You probably shouldn’t overdo it,” he says as he approaches Clint’s shooting lane. Clint ignores him, and Phil watches his muscles play under his t-shirt for a while, but he also sees a slight tremble in his shoulders that usually isn’t there. “Clint.”

After two more shots, Clint lowers his bow and pulls in a deep breath before he heads to the back table where his case and quiver are sitting. He puts everything away methodically, slowly, and silently. He says, without turning around, “Did you need something, Phil?”

Phil says nothing until Clint finally turns and meets his gaze. His eyes are shuttered and his mouth is flat. It’s not what Phil’s planning to say, but somehow when he looks at Clint’s closed-off face, the words slip out unbid. “Shower and have dinner off-base with me?”

Clint blinks. “Off-base?” They don’t go off-base much. It’s reserved for nights out with a group of them after long stretches of relentless work, or when one of them needs something that they just can’t get here.

Phil nods. “Yeah. Maybe somewhere nice. I could stand to get out of here for a night.” He could, too. Suddenly SHIELD seems constricting, too much, and definitely not where Phil wants to see Clint. He wants Clint to relax, to see him again, and to tune in.

It must show in his face, because Clint finally shrugs and nods. “Okay. I’ll wear something other than cargo pants for once,” he says with a smile. It doesn’t quite take over his face like normal, but it’s there at least. Phil will take it for now.

“I’ll get a car and meet you out front in an hour?” he asks, and Clint nods.

Dinner is nice. It’s not too fancy, and they’re both in jeans, but it’s got grilled salmon for Clint and a chicken pasta dish that Phil might kill someone for someday, and they manage to work through a bottle of wine together. Phil watches the light play across Clint’s face and appreciates the view of Clint’s open collar and the way he’s talking with his hands again. It’s comforting to Phil.

When they've finished dinner, Phil finds the opening he was waiting for. Clint is relaxed and they've been talking throughout the meal, although Phil can read the exhaustion left over from the mission on Clint's face, and he's letting Phil drive most of the conversation. His kaleidoscope eyes glint in the low light of the stained glass lamp at their table. He's beautiful, Phil thinks as he sets his wine glass down and takes a deep breath.

"So I got an interesting memo from Fury today," Phil says, and now that he's talking, his mouth is dry and he feels his heartbeat speed up. He reaches for his water.

"That could mean so many things," Clint replies with a grin.

Phil feels a surge of reassurance in his smile. "Yes, it could," he says with a nod. He takes another deep breath, but tries to hide it. He should know better.

"Phil? Was the news okay?"

Phil meets Clint's gaze and can't keep the adoration for him off of his face, so he stops trying. "Yes. You got a promotion. You'll be getting the official letter tomorrow." Saying the words sends a little spark through Phil. "Congratulations."

Clint stares and then blinks, hard. "We're the same level now?" he says, and the adoration Phil feels turns to something different, closer to hope, if that's where Clint's mind went first thing.

Phil just nods and takes a drink of wine. Possibility is sitting across from him in the shape of the kindest, strongest, smartest person he's ever met, and now they’re not in any sort of power position with each other.

"Let me get this right," Clint says, and he sounds like he's talking about a mission. "I got a promotion, which is fantastic because I get better pay, better clearance, a bit more vacation time, and it means we're the same level, even though you still get to boss me around on missions. Right?"

"Well, I'm not sure 'boss you around' is the right phrase for what I do as your mission handler," Phil replies.

Clint nods and then stares at his plate. His shoulders slump a little, and Phil counts a minute by in silence.

"Clint, what's wrong?" Phil asks.

There's no answer.

"Clint, this is excellent news for your career. At the rate you're going you'll reach Level 8 even before I do, which is going to clear you for everything." Phil still gets no response, and Clint sits staring at his lap. "What is this?" Phil says, finally. "I thought this was good news."

Clint finally looks up at him and takes a shuddering breath. "Can I ask you something about the last mission and those drugs?" he says, his voice filled with an unnatural uncertainty that makes Phil think of his voice when he was _on_ those drugs.

"Of course."

"I ranted a lot, and - and I told you about my brother, didn't I?" He sounds small again, so unlike himself.

Phil nods. "You did. I figured out that he stood by and watched while someone hurt you for a long time, and then you were stabbed and he didn't help." He tries to keep his voice clinical, like it wasn't the most awful thing he'd ever listened to. He's not sure it works.

Clint nods and looks around the restaurant. He finally meets Phil's gaze again. "I don't talk about my past," he states.

"I know."

Clint presses his lips together. He looks like he wants to say several different things at once and can't figure out which to say first. "I'm not proud of who I was back then.”

Phil hears self-loathing in Clint's voice, and that doesn’t belong there at all. "You were a kid, Clint. A kid trying to make a whole lot of people happy and getting the shit kicked out of you when you couldn't do that."

Clint sits back in his seat, hard. "That's what you took from that? Really?"

"What else should I take?"

"I was a weak little shit who could only manage to piss people off and my brother ditched me for it." he answered. His face was cold and he sounded like he was reciting something he’d practiced saying over and over again.

Phil leans forward and crosses his hands on the table. Their waiter starts to approach them, takes one look at their faces, and turns the other way. Phil doesn't blame him.

"You were twelve when you got your first act, according to our records. From what you said, you were getting beat up by someone from the beginning. You tried to give your brother money to make him happy and you took those beatings without a fuss. You were seventeen when you switched employers, according to our files, so all that stuff you were ranting about last week?”

Phil pauses and tilts his head enough to keep Clint’s eyes on him, “You were a kid. A kid, Clint. When I was a kid I was camping with my dad and getting yelled at for not making my bed in the morning. How the hell does all that make you weak?"

Clint protests, "But he said - he always called me - he said I was the weakest kid he'd ever seen."

"Who said that, your brother?"

Clint nods a fraction.

Phil turns his voice gentle. Turns on the compassion he swears Clint deserves. "This is your brother who was two years older than you, who was relying on his younger brother for money and probably both jealous of it and angry at himself for not protecting you more? _He_ said you were weak and you still believe him?"

Clint looks away again and sucks in a sharp breath. “I didn’t want to tell anyone about those days,” he whispers. “It’s all confusing and hard and crazy for me – every time I think about it it’s like a weird, messed up psychedelic video, even without the drugs. I don’t like to think about it.”

“I’m sorry,” Phil says, and he leans over and brushes the back of Clint’s hand. Clint looks back at him, down at their hands. Phil adds, “I’m sorry I heard what you didn’t want me to hear, but it doesn’t change anything about how I feel about you. I still think you’re the strongest person I’ve ever met. I never knew how you got from the circus to mercenary work, but I was okay with not knowing. As long as you ended up at SHIELD and in my life, that’s all that matters.”

Clint looks up and finds Phil’s eyes, and searches them like he can see something Phil doesn’t know is there. Maybe he can. Phil doesn’t back down from the examination.

“You really didn’t know that I got stabbed and left for dead? That the circus couldn’t wait, and I got left behind with no one and nothing to my name?”

Phil shakes his head. “Our files on you don’t have any details from those days.”

Clint wipes his face with his other hand and nods. “I guess it’s good for me to learn that you’re not omniscient.”

“Oh yeah? Why’s that?” Phil asks.

Clint blows out a breath, smiles warmly, and says, “Well, for starters, that lets me stop worrying that you might know I already picked up the tab tonight, and also, that I’m seriously considering this our first date since you got that message from Fury today about my promotion.”

Phil hears him, processes what he says, and can’t form a word. Clint laughs, his burst of laughter that he does when he’s really delighted, and clasps his other hand over Phil’s.

“Just tell me you’ll set up the second date and we’re good, Phil,” Clint stage-whispers, and then leans over and presses a light kiss to Phil’s lips before sitting back in his chair.

“Are you sure _you’re_ not omniscient?” Phil asks as he takes in the smug smile on Clint’s face. It’s part cover-up of the emotionally charged moment minutes ago, but Phil will let him have it this time. He may bring up a visit to the SHIELD psych team later, but for now he’s content to have tingling lips from Clint’s kiss and the spark growing stronger in his belly as he thinks of a second date.

“Nope, I’m definitely not omniscient,” Clint replies. “Just lucky.”

 


End file.
